The Saturday Interview: Severus Snape
by Moonflower 92
Summary: [Slash] Angsty, misunderstood, and not quite a nice wizard. Severus Snape on life after the Death Eaters.


**"The Saturday Interview: Severus Snape"  
by Moonflower  
**  
**Summary:** Spoofy hack-journalism piece about an afternoon with Severus Snape.  
**Pairing: **Severus Snape / Remus Lupin  
**Rating: **PG-13  
** Spoilers: **For all the books, as this is set in some theoretical "post-Voldemort" life  
** Disclaimers: **Severus Snape and Remus Lupin, Harry Potter, etc, are the property of JK Rowling. The reporter, the photographer, the dog, and the sexually frustated clock are inventions by Moonflower.  
**Notes: **Spot the Alan Rickman references in here, just for fun.  
**Dedication:** To Louise, who's been very patient with me on another fic. To Soraia, for the indirect inspiration. To Mathilda and Spydre, for betaing.  
  
  
The Saturday Interview  
-----------------------------------------  
  
Angst-ridden, misunderstood and not quite a nice wizard - Julie Flanders speaks to Severus Snape.  
  
  
Much the strangest thing that has been said about Severus Snape is not quite true. He does not, after all, have a preference for blood over other drinks. But he does admit that in the course of his potions work he occasionally finds that he has to taste "samples" to make sure they're fresh before adding them to the cauldron. When he says this, he fixes me with a rigid black look, as if challenging me to make more out of his words and set them down as innuendo. The practised, chilling glare - a product of nearly 15 years of keeping Britain's finest junior wizards firmly in their seats - necessarily humbles me within seconds. It doesn't do to tease the man once regarded as "that slimy git" by Harry Potter.  
  
Snape has come a long way since those dog days at Hogwarts, when his colleagues on the faculty regularly held secret meetings to discuss whether he should be fired. Minerva McGonagall, the ex-headmistress of the school, says in her recently-published memoirs that "Snape's behaviour worried us not only professionally, but also psychiatrically. He seemed almost physically incapable of 'coming to heel'.". Reading those words in her book "Minerva: A History" made me succumb for a moment to various innuendo-filled ideas, none of which I mention to Snape himself. When he speaks of those years - marking homework, constantly keeping an eye out for the resurgent Voldemort, and wrestling for control both of his Slytherin house and his celebrity student - he is so harsh and brief that it almost seems as if he's trying to hide deep regret. Yet no post could have been more stressful than his during the campaign against Voldemort, and there were few among his contemporaries who actually counted Snape as a friend, respect and cultivate him as they might. "Do I need to remind you that I lived in a dungeon?" he snaps. "It was hardly the place for cocktail parties." A moment later, as though he's just remembered, he's apologizing, albeit grudgingly, for his bad manners.  
  
Yet his defensive words are understandable given that Snape has always refused to hide from his past, even though it may be shameful and of dubious status. The dungeons have given way to a modern, double-storey house in Putney with a sleek green lawn, yet scattered about the airy living room are mementos of the Death Eaters, the notorious wizard Gestapo to which Snape belonged for 3 years. I spot a pair of sharp-edged torture handcuffs, polished to mirror brightness, arranged on the smooth black piano in the centre of the living room. A small ebony skull - the symbol of the Death Eaters - sits unobtrusively on the mantelpiece beside a photograph of Remus Lupin, the werewolf who is Snape's long-term partner. At once chillingly offensive and yet compelling, the Voldemort paraphernalia seems to indicate that Snape is serious about confronting his mistakes, and isn't afraid to do so. The handcuffs are an effective touch, relating music to pain, and art to evil. I wonder if it affects his piano playing. He doesn't play, he says, leaving the words open to interpretation. His visitors - "such as they are" - don't seem to notice the grisly souvenirs, and if, like Albus Dumbledore, they do, they apparently find the handcuffs and skulls remarkably profound and not grisly at all.  
  
Those who may find such mementos disturbing - to say the least - are not few. Among the close-knit wizard community, emotions still run high over the war against Voldemort, and a wizard like Severus Snape, with his divided loyalties and personal experience of the dark side, cannot always be considered a hero. "He's good, but he's also troubling," is how one of my wizard friends puts it. "How do you thank him for betraying the other side when he shouldn't have been there in the first place?" The whole affair culminated in a signature campaign by the Widowed Witches pressure group last August, when Snape was awarded the prestigious Order of Merlin. The Order itself hangs, somewhat awkwardly, on the living room wall above a set of photographs of Snape and his partner's friends, who were killed during the war. He plays the award down, smoothly, when it is referred to. "I didn't ask for it, although (pause) I admit I wanted it. But the Ministry gave them to everyone who worked for Professor Dumbledore, and I happened to be one of these people. There were many others, who deserved their awards more."  
  
Like Sirius Black, I ask, and am made to regret it, though Snape, to his credit, says nothing more (verbally, at least) than, "Perhaps." Later on the interview, when he is more reflective, he admits that the tabloid "feud" between himself and Black is partly the result of his own actions, but insists that both parties are able to deal with it. His words don't quite ring true.  
  
The competitive streak in Snape - ideal stuff in Slytherin, of which he was Housemaster - is well documented. It's evidenced by a neat row of degrees from research institutes throughout the wizard world, on the wall by the potted indoor ferns, not far from the Order of Merlin. (He plays that down as well: "my partner decided to put them up"). Snape's former colleague Igor Karkaroff describes him as "brilliance distilled to pure poison" - and it is clear from his actions that whatever he wants, he will go all out to get. But the net effect of all this brilliance, poison and ambition is that Snape - no matter how you wash it - comes across as a slightly neurotic, though polished, social performer. Throughout the interview, he is by turns relaxed, introspective, angry, interested, and rude, yet he is never off guard, and I am left with a very faint feeling that he might be afraid of something, perhaps me, perhaps not.  
  
Halfway through the interview, Snape's partner comes through the front door and into the living room. Remus Lupin is carrying groceries and a string-tied bundle of books, and is followed by a beautifully-groomed golden retriever. Their presence - domestic, and cheerful - immediately shatters my entire impression of Snape so far. Lupin stops, says hello, shakes hands easily over his parcels, and unselfconsciously gives Snape a brief peck on the cheek. The dog barks at me, then gives up and waves its feather tail at Snape, who seems just as unnerved as I am by the sudden shift in the entire mood and dynamics of our interview. Lupin disappears into the kitchen and Snape is distracted and only able to keep one eye on the media. After a bit of fidgeting, he suggests we go and get something to drink.  
  
In the kitchen, Lupin is putting away the groceries. A tall, shyly graceful man with a face like an artist's model, he is the same age as Snape, but could comfortably pass for 30. Unlike Snape, who is in black wizard gear, he's wearing ordinary jeans and a grey checked shirt, and is stacking Sainsbury's puddings in a compartment of the overhead cabinet. The kitchen is big, and bright with mahogany fittings, chrome fixtures and faucets, and more indoor plants beneath wooden African masks. Lupin and the golden retriever (which Snape calls "Loki" and Lupin insists is named "Bartleby") seem perfectly at home in this setting, like dolls inserted into a pull-out three storey Barbie house. Snape, of course, is as out of kilter as a Ken doll, settled into a chrome-backed chair beside the window overlooking a large, flowery back garden. Yet he seems to have recovered his equanimity, pats the dog and very willingly digs out some lemons from the fridge for Lupin to squeeze into our tea. The chemistry between himself and his handsome partner is obvious, but discreet - during the squeezing and lemon stage (of the tea-making, that is), Snape jostles Lupin and they exchange a few words in a murmur too low for me to overhear.  
  
Curiously enough, the intensely private Snape seems most at ease when talking about Lupin, whom he has known since they were schoolmates at Hogwarts, more than thirty years ago. They were in different houses - iffy Slytherin and pious Gryffindor - and spent a lot of time in opposing factions, making war against each other. "But I always admired him. It wasn't something conscious. Just a natural, respectful admiration, the kind you'd give to any outstanding rival." he says. "I still feel that way, sometimes, because he's really a very accomplished person. He can do a variety of things very well. He's just written a book, in fact. A text on the dark arts - which I think will be definitive." and he displays guarded pride, even a small smile. His partner's struggle with being a werewolf was one of the main reasons, he admits quite freely, that they didn't get together until late in life. "It didn't help that my problems with his lycanthropy were nearly as bad as his own. The illness... is something that needs teamwork to fight. A man needs to be able to rely on his partner."   
  
He flicks me a keen look, searching for ridicule or pity, and pushes his teacup aside. "Everything conspired against us, at some point. First that prank in school; then the Death Eaters, hardly the kind of circle a werewolf should move in.... and we lost touch for more than 12 years." Too much water had flowed under the bridge, when they met again in peacetime, so "neither of us knew if we even wanted it anymore, after all we'd been through." he says. "We gave it a try." The first try led to a short and terrible breakup, of which he will not speak, and then to a reunion, a shared flat, and then to the purchase of the house, remodeling, and the acquisition of Bartleby/Loki. Next month will be their sixth anniversary - and they plan to spend it abroad, just the two of them and a toothbrush.  
  
Of domesticity, he says, simply, "It's better for Remus than me, but isn't as bad as I feared". What he hated the most, at first, was having to organise meals for the two of them - "Remus and I took turns doing the cooking, and I found it especially irritating to start washing onions in the middle of an experiment." he says. But it ended up all right, and he has begun to "see the possibilities" of cooking, which he'd never done before. So domesticity does have its advantages, after all. Does he regret discovering this so late in the day? "No, I don't think so."   
  
Perhaps anticipating where this line of questioning might lead, he fixes me with a beady eye and adds, "I don't regret anything that's happened in my life. Not even joining the 'wrong' side, or the Death Eaters." Those are very strong words, I say, and liable to misinterpretation. "Yes. But they're true. They must be, or else by rights I should be spending my life trying to unmake every single thing I've done since the Death Eaters. Which I'm not prepared to do, as I have had a few accomplishments in recent years, of which I am //somewhat// proud. I am not interested in becoming a spineless, sentimental moralist for the sake of penitence." and now he sounds scornful, deeply arrogant, and I see why it is easy to hate this man, as hundreds of school-age wizards apparently did for 15 years. Especially when the "sentimental moralists" he refers to would understandably have a good case for penitence. It was, after all, their loved ones who suffered due to Snape's early confusion about which was the right side.  
  
To be fair to Snape, he has done a good bit in the way of atonement since realizing his mistakes. In the controversy over his conduct, what has often been overlooked is the strength of mind it must have taken for him to seek out Albus Dumbledore and ask to be taken back, no small feat for a man of his arrogance. Not to mention the personal courage involved in becoming a double agent against Voldemort, as he did. He was invaluable in providing anonymous evidence at the Azkaban trials which sent a variety of war criminals, among them his old - and innocent - rival Sirius Black, to long stretches in prison. When Voldemort came back from the dead, Snape accepted what he calls "perhaps the most challenging job I'd done so far" - returning to the so-called "wrong side" to carry out his old tasks.   
  
How hard was it to persuade the dark lord to accept him again? He looks tired, as if he'd rather not think about it. "Torture and pain are the only tools you have on that side. It's the only language Voldemort speaks to his underlings. I suppose physical pain played a part in my meeting with him. Mentally, I have never been so." he stops altogether. "Frightened." he finishes. For Severus Snape - or at least the Severus Snape which he's been in the past hour - this is a significant revelation. What does he fear? "Loss." he says, a little glibly. I press him; what does he mean by loss? Losing people, friendships, competitions? "Yes." The tone of voice in which this single, brief syllable is uttered makes me feel like I have suddenly discovered a new, very fragile piece of Snape, but his voice is also carefully weighted to discourage me from pursuing this discovery. The Potions Master is still also a Fencing Master - always on guard.  
  
Since the end of the war, however, nothing too frightening has occurred to him. Apart from the time he and Lupin briefly separated, life has been very quiet, very moderate for the former Death Eater. "My partner and I are not extravagant, we work steadily," he tells me, with a caustic look. "We each have projects in our areas of specialization." (Lupin is noted in academic circles for his analytical work on the Dark Arts). They prefer their non-wizard neighbourhood, where nobody knows (or indeed would believe) that Lupin is a werewolf. They hardly go out, and when they do enjoy a rare night on the town, they like to have dinner at Lupin's favourite Muggle restaurant. It turns out to be the Terence Conran's at Canary Wharf, which is apparently also where they first discussed "getting into a relationship" (Snape's phrasing).   
  
I try and fail to visualize them at it. Their last outing was to see the Noel Coward play, "Private Lives", at the Albery Theatre. How did they find it? "Overrated." is the one-second Snape review, delivered like an egg on ice.  
  
Snape's continuing mastery of the putdown could be due to the fact that he's given up teaching at Hogwarts. Instead, there is the perhaps more intellectual challenge of crushing doctoral candidates at a prestigious wizard university, where he sits on the board of examiners for something called Liquid Magic Studies. "I consider proposals and theses for research into potions, their components and their uses in the wider magical context." he explains, carefully. "It goes some way to maintaining standards of potion-making in Britain in the academic field. We currently lag quite far behind other countries at the international level. For example, when compared to Transylvania..." At which point I wish I could say that I switched off and merely wallowed in the tones of his low, intriguing voice. Snape's voice is truly a marvel, as satisfying to the senses as fine chocolate - deeply rich, bitter, and silky smooth. An additional spice comes from the fact that he seems highly aware of this, beneath that stubborn po-face. It is a bit like flirting, and about 50 times more perilous. Suffice to say Lupin's existence does not spring to mind when listening to Snape speak.  
  
The arrival of my photographer effectively or unfortunately puts an end to all this. Snape, visibly bristling, is directed out of the house and onto the neat green lawn. The golden retriever makes another appearance, fresh from a nap at Lupin's feet in his study, and wanders around sniffing suspiciously at photographer John Bown's heels. Told of the dog's double identity, Bown is inclined to think he is more of a Bartleby than a Loki. Snape responds, unexpectedly, with a question: Does he really think so? Why? "He's just not much of a devil," Bown says, shrugging. Considering his short acquaintance with Bartleby, he adds that of course, he might have been one. Bown doesn't know. But he isn't anymore, is he? Snape favours us all, dog and media, with an appraising stare. No, he says to Bown, you could be right. Maybe he was sick and perverted once, but he's not a devil anymore. And, in perfect Snape style, he manages, with that cool, dark voice, to leave his words completely open to interpretation.  
  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
  
Remus Lupin smoothed the wrinkles out of the soft newsprint, straightening a corner of the weekend section. The Saturday broadsheet was spread out on the bed beside him, its various sections fanned out over the blankets. He stretched a little, beaming out at the cool sunshine pouring through the half-open French windows. The little digital clock by the bedside read 10:26 am. "10:26," it snapped when he glanced up at it. "Third of May. Weather sunshine, high of 15, no storms expected. Get up, for Chrissakes."  
  
Remus blinked, his delicious, lazy mood slightly dented by this profanity first thing in the morning. From the clock. "Good morning to you too."  
  
"Half the bloody day's gone." the clock responded sourly. "And you're lying naked in bed with a smug smirk on your face and newspapers all over your crotch. Muggle ones too."  
  
"Oh shut up." Remus told it goodhumouredly, teasing. "Get a boyfriend."  
  
"I would if you'd start bringing some home." was the bitter reply. "If you'd even think of me next time you're in Watchez N Clox. I'm the one who has to sit next to the bed //listening// to you all night long. And then try to wake you up the morning after."  
  
"I'm sorry." Remus murmured, picking up the TV listings. "It must be frustrating for you." He cast a curious glance over the day's programmes, and then put the section aside. The clock gave a huge snort, and turned away from the bed.  
  
"Winding up the clock again?"  
  
Remus glanced up at the open doorway as the clock - infuriated - set off its alarm in shrill rage. A reproving look crossed his face at the same time as his smile, and didn't complete the trip. "Oh no. Not me, anyway."  
  
Severus Snape carried the heavily-loaded breakfast tray into the bedroom, and set it down on the table beside the still-ringing clock. "Silence." he told it, sternly.  
  
The little clock stopped the alarm, hissed "Bastard!" at him and shut itself off, sulkily turning its back entirely to the bed.  
  
"The photographs are rather good." Remus remarked, pulling the Weekend section closer to himself. "I think you look very well in them."  
  
"I look like a cross old geezer." Snape replied, glancing at them again. "Which is exactly as intended, I suppose."  
  
Remus studied the two-page photo spread. "Perhaps." he said. He looked up at the other man. "I think the photographer was just trying to get some sense of your personality."  
  
"You're trying to be insulting." Snape told him. "Like the clock. A conspiracy."  
  
Remus' smile and his reproving look set off across his face again, but this time the look won. "No, I'm serious."  
  
Snape busied himself with the silver covers and stacked plates of the breakfast tray. "Shall I make your tea?"  
  
"Yes please." Remus leaned back against the pillows, the newspaper drawn up in one hand. He watched Snape lift the grey china teapot, taking in the exact measurement of sugar and milk, his partner's focus trained on the making of breakfast tea. Severus still looked well, for his age - his jawline was firm and the lines in his forehead were only visible when he frowned.  
  
"The woman didn't like a lot of what she saw in us." Snape commented, stirring Remus' tea with a gilt-edged spoon. He lifted the cup to his lips to taste; then, satisfied, he handed it over to his partner. Remus' smile of thanks met no answer in Snape's face except a slight softening in his eyes.   
  
"She was seeing us as she had to - with the background of all the public controversies and issues." Remus looked down at the newspaper again. "I think she didn't do a bad job, considering you were apparently quite... prickly."  
  
"There'll be no end of backlash from the Widowed Witches once our press gets hold of this." Snape said, sounding grimly amused. He sat down on the bed, among the newspapers. "After what I apparently said."  
  
"Well, it isn't quite a pretty speech about how grounded love has made you." Remus answered. He re-read Snape's words of refusal to do any penance for his life. "And it does sound a bit harsh. Even to me."  
  
Snape leant forward, crushing the sports section. "Does it hurt you?" he asked, in a low voice.  
  
"I can deal with it." Remus told him, briefly. "Myself." he added.  
  
Snape looked away. "I'm sorry." he said.  
  
Remus turned up one corner of his mouth as he ran his finger along the neat lines of type. "I can understand your point, after all." he said. "Even if I don't - entirely - agree with it. As I did tell you about four years ago."  
  
"Yes, you did." Snape responded, mechanically. "That night in Berlin, when we were walking across the platz with the statue of..."  
  
"Beethoven."  
  
"I thought it was Nietzsche."  
  
Remus rolled his eyes. He replaced his teacup carefully on the breakfast tray. Snape asked, abruptly, "What did the woman ask you when she went down to your study - after the photographer came?"  
  
"She just looked around the place. Asked about the flowers and the interior decor. Asked me how I felt about you. I can't quite remember, it was two weeks ago." Remus scanned the paper quickly. "Anyway, whatever I said, it didn't make it past the editor."  
  
"She devotes a disproportionate number of paragraphs to you." Snape said. "A trifle embarrassing, I would think."  
  
The other man shrugged. "Perhaps it's a more saleable story if it's about a couple." He laughed, suddenly, at Snape, crouched above him fully dressed like a bat in the bright morning sunshine. "Mature love. Gay men. Wizards. Half humans... We're interest. Diverse."  
  
Snape crawled over the newspapers and aligned his body into the groove in the bed next to Remus', reaching round to wrap his arms over him. He sank his face into the cool crease of Remus' neck, feeling the other man relax into his embrace. He murmured against Lupin's skin: "Do you want to have breakfast.... I made pancakes."  
  
"Mmmhm." Remus nestled against him, tilted his head back. "It was good of you."  
  
"There's honey in that jar next to the pancakes."  
  
"Severus!"   
  
Snape's mouthings grew more intense, moved down Lupin's bare shoulder. Remus reached up to stroke the long black hair that fell across his chest. "Darling." he said, while his voice was still steady.  
  
Snape didn't stop, which was of course why Remus loved him. "What?"  
  
"Before you let me undo your buttons...."  
  
Snape rolled right over him - dark robes sliding in a sensual heap over his lean form - and said, "Why don't you just shut up and not interrupt?"  
  
Remus' eyes lit up in agreement. "But before you do that."   
  
There was a very dark, laser-like gaze, and a warm, very personal touch directed full upon him. Remus' next words came out in an undignified, breathless tumble. "Get something to wrap the clock in - cover it - it can hear us!"  
  
The only reply was the crackle of newspapers on the bed.  
  
==== end ====  
  
Few more notes (if anybody's interested):   
  
The photographer's name is taken from Jane Bown, who used to do really nice portraits for the Sunday Times.   
  
The clock came out of nowhere and established itself: I know, the disgruntled talking piece of machinery is very old hat, but still.   
  
The references (as if you needed them!) are: Bartleby and Loki, the anti-heroes of Dogma (in which AR played the Voice of God), the Ken doll (Rickman quote from Dogma), and "Private Lives", with AR and Lindsey Duncan, currently running in London and scheduled for Broadway later this year.  
  
Concerning Reviews:  
It's very flattering and pleasant that several people have been kind enough to say that they liked my fic. I thank all of you, very much. But a review doesn't have to be positive. I feel fic reviews should work the same way as movie reviews - to let *other readers* know what you thought of a piece of work, so that they can decide if it's worth their while. I'm not sure fic authors should even be allowed to see their reviews. ;-) 

So please feel free to pass judgment on this fic. The review shouldn't be meant for me/my ego. 


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